


Unforgiven

by sasha_b



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Bass is angsty as hell, Gen, Prompt Fic, Revolution, season one spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2368727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bass waits for Miles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unforgiven

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt table on LJ's NBC Revolution comm. I did this really quickly so apologies if there is any weirdness - I love Bass and angst together, so all the tropes I am hot for. 
> 
> Prompt was "bicycle."
> 
> Spoilers for episode 15, season one, **Home**.

Time was, all Bass needed to be happy was a sunny day, no homework, Miles at his side, and his trusty Schwinn – the one with the rusted spokes and torn streamers.

He thinks on that bike every once in a while; not too often, as memories of the bike come parcel for package with memories of Miles, and he doesn’t want to go there.

Night’s falling over the small town, and the place is quiet, except for Bass’ boots and the squeaking of the leather as he paces, back and forth, in front of Miles’ old house. Like most places now, it’s dark and deserted and he can see Emma looking out the window, long hair tucked behind her ear, watching for him, or for Miles. He’s not sure which. He blinks, and the apparition is gone, just like high school, just like his family, just like anything that means anything to him.

He wonders why he’s trying to draw Miles here, and the other man _will_ come, he’s sure. But why does it matter now? After Miles had told him _we’re not family you mean nothing to me_ and after Bass had almost shot him.

He turns again, his uniform neat although his hair is starting to slide into his face, sweat making it stand up in crazy whorls, arcing over his skull, wildness creeping into his expression of _distraught distrust despair fuck this I don’t want this I just want Miles and the summer and the bike and our homes back and_ he steps on a stick and it snaps under the weight of his military issue boots, making him jump skyward, alone, reminiscing. Broken.

Emma. Shelley. Miles. Everything’s wrong now, and he feels the burn of hatred and confusion and _I’ve got you_ scald the back of his eyes and his throat and he spits out a curse, angrily, the feel of the _fuck_ rolling around in his mouth like marbles, hard and chipping his teeth.

“General,” one of his men salutes and huffs and puffs while waiting for Monroe to acknowledge him. “He’s here.”

Bass swallows back another _fuck_ and says, “go get the woman.”

He shuts his eyes and waits for the lackey to bring Emma to him and he waits for Miles to do what Miles will always do, unless it involves loyalty to Bass, apparently.

He feels his fingers shake and he rolls his lips inward and the night breeze brings a random cacophony of sound to him – he hears the tinkling of a wind chime, or of a bicycle bell, or of the whisper of _you’re all the family I need, Bass, don’t forget it_ and he stomps on the stick he’d already broken, snapping the rest of it like he’d snap Miles’ neck if he could. If he dared. If he could then die right after the other man, because that would be the only way he could follow up that kind of act.

He kicks the stick out of his way as Emma appears with the guard, her red hair catching the light and burning his world down.

Too late too go back, even as he sees himself riding alongside Miles and sometimes Emma, the spokes on his Schwinn snapping with the rust coating them, finally, ultimately.

It’s what he deserves, really.


End file.
